Aftermath
by DinoDina
Summary: It had been two years—to the date—since Canary Wharf had fallen. And Jack had forgotten, in his anger, to look out for Ianto. Janto oneshot.


By the time Jack checked the calendar, Ianto was nowhere to be seen. The Hub was seemingly empty when Jack looked out on it, barren but its machines working; even after several months, it was unusually quiet, and Toshiko and Owen's desks unusually empty.

Jack tapped the square on the calendar with his fingers, slowly, thoughtfully, so as not to disturb the eerie silence. The vast space looked back at him through the windows. Jack sighed and ran his free hand down his face, momentarily blocking the view. Then the moment was gone, his hand was down, and he was looking at it again.

But time waited for now one—how was it May already? How had Jack forgotten to count down?—and he touched the calendar once more before leaving the office.

Calling for Ianto would be useless. If he was down in the Archives, he wouldn't hear—would have an excuse to pretend he didn't hear—and if he was in the main Hub and he _did_ hear, he wouldn't respond. So Jack resolved to searching the hard way.

When several cursory walkthroughs had shown everything to be clear, he went over to Tosh's desk and pulled up the Hub's internal CCTV: the kitchen, the desks, the doors, the nooks and crannies.

All were empty.

Jack looked quickly. He didn't want to leave Ianto alone for more time than he had to, for more time than he'd already had. If only he hadn't been copped up in his own anger and mourning—he would get nowhere if he dwelled on the 'what ifs'—

Jack sped up his search, but was still moving too slowly. He couldn't bring himself to move any fast, with the guilt and pain weighing him down, with the nightmare of Canary Wharf pressing on the fresh wound of losing Owen and Tosh. He felt slow and lethargic in a way he hadn't been for years, and though he wanted to hurry—though he _did_ hurry—it didn't feel like it was enough. But nothing felt like it was enough anymore.

On a hunch, Jack checked the outside cameras, but saw nothing but the dismal spring rain: typical Welsh weather, but somehow expressive of the day's heaviness. Not even Ianto would try to hide himself thee. Ianto hated the cold and rain in a way that was usually amusing: he'd spend all of the winter indoors if he could, and while he never verbally complained about it, he would always frown—adorably, Jack thought—whenever he saw that it was raining. No, Ianto wouldn't look to the dismal weather to justify his mourning; he would seek isolation and comfort in a place he'd be able to completely forget about the pain.

Jack looked up from the camera and surveyed the tall ceilings.

The light in Myfanwy's nest was dim, but it was there. It had been Ianto and Tosh's idea to preserve energy: the light would turn off when no one was there, and if someone _was_ there, they'd be able to manually control it. Myfanwy liked the brightness. Perhaps it reminded her of the time she'd left.

With Myfanwy inside the Hub but not flying around, there was only one reason why the light would be dimmed: Ianto.

Jack was thankful that Ianto, in a way, had placed himself into an inescapable situation.

Ianto didn't like talking. He was a man of little words even on the good days, when he could be arousingly eloquent, but on the bad days—he completely shut down. It was fear and insecurity, probably, the reticence to share mental and emotional difficulties that was so common in the 21st century.

Not that Jack was much better. He knew that.

But he'd messed up here—a lot. Jack had wanted to be prepared for the anniversary of Canary Wharf, to be there for Ianto when the day hit. With Ianto cooped up—hiding—in Myfanwy's aerie, Jack was several hours too late to help.

Jack approached the ladder, wondering if he should telegraph his approach. Ianto wouldn't be able to run, as there was no other exit from the nest, but audible footsteps would let Ianto prepare himself for company.

He took his time on the ladder, but didn't hear movement from above; Ianto either hadn't heard or didn't care. It was the latter, Jack thought as he climbed in and was met with no response. Ianto was hunched over, feeding Myfanwy chocolate and petting one of her leathery wings; he hadn't moved or made a sound. Jack knew to sit close but not too close—close enough to reach over and help, but far enough that he wasn't threatening; he not only had the experience of helping countless others, but Ianto specifically.

He'd dropped the ball, but it wasn't too late.

"Ianto?" he said softly.

A small shrug was the only response, but it was a start. Ianto was listening, though still focused on Myfanwy.

"How are you doing?"

Another shrug.

It had been two years—to the date—since Canary Wharf had fallen. Of course Ianto could only shrug.

Jack kept his body language as open as possible in case Ianto turned around, then said, "Can I move closer?"

Waiting, Jack almost held his breath; Ianto didn't respond. That was alright. He'd do whatever Ianto needed him to do, and if that meant repeating the question or leaving the aerie—it wasn't up to Jack, not today. He'd be there for Ianto, to chase away his demons and offer any and all support needed, like Ianto so often did for him, , but if Ianto sent him away, Jack would respect it. Unless, of course, Ianto was deflecting. But Jack was good at telling when that was happening, now.

And then,, finally, Ianto nodded. Minutely. Just a small inclination, but it was all Jack needed.

"Yes or no to touching?" he asked, positioning himself just behind Ianto's left side.

Another nod, this one quicker but still small. Jack sat closer and Ianto minutely shifted his weight back to rest on Jack's chest. Myfanwy followed his movement but didn't protest, instead continuing to eat Ianto's chocolate; after a moment, she shuffled in place and lay down. It was no doubt that Ianto's petting had relaxed her.

"What about talking?" Jack asked, then. "Yes or no? You ready to talk yet?'

Jack felt Ianto grimace. A moment later, he shook his head.

That was alright. Ianto would be ready later and whenever he did feel comfortable, Jack would be there. It had been a rough year already, what with losing Owen and Tosh, and Ianto losing his mother before that, and the two-year anniversary of Canary Wharf had clearly hit Ianto hard. Jack briefly wondered if he would have been able to help if he'd remembered—he'd planned on that, after all—but it was too late now, and Ianto was in his arms, silent but not hiding.

Ready to pick up the pieces, Jack waited. The chocolate would run out, Myfanwy would fall asleep, and Ianto would come up ready to face the world. But before then, Jack would be there for him, just like Ianto was always there for him.


End file.
